


Drugs (Are Bad)

by Epiphanyx7



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drugs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Siblings, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-29
Updated: 2008-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanyx7/pseuds/Epiphanyx7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was alone, falling free... trying my best not to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drugs (Are Bad)

**Author's Note:**

> My first time ever writing in this fandom. Written for Kink Bingo 2008, kind of. Kink = Drugs. Lyrics are from "Meds" by Placebo.

1\. _I was alone, falling free._

Sam is jerking off.

This is nothing new, of course – he’s male, he’s healthy, and even if he were sick he’d still be male, still be jerking off. This, however, is different, and not because he’s in a hotel room by himself for the first time in what seems like months. Before, he’d had weeks where he’d jerk himself off three times in the shower, and take no more time in the bathroom than he normally did.

This time, though, Sam is jerking off and he’s alone, in the hotel room, knows that Dean won’t be coming back any time soon. And now, of course, Sam hates himself because he’d jerking off and he’s thinking about his fucking _brother_.

Dean, of course, is somewhere else – two minutes into the bar he’d picked up a leggy redhead, all curves and smiles and dark, pouting lips. Dean hadn’t even seen the inside of the hotel room, just tossed the keys to Sam with a wink and a smile that meant he’d be back after breakfast.

So Sam is lying in bed with one hand in his boxers, trying not to think about sex and Dean and failing miserably, miserably. Somewhere, Dean is peeling a pair of stockings down long, tanned legs. Somewhere, Dean is probably placing little nipping bites on the inside of her thigh, and that dumb slut is probably laughing, breathless with excitement. Sam isn’t breathless, he’s barely gotten started, but he thinks of Dean’s eyes dark with lust and wraps his hand around his dick.

Sam despises himself, knows that it’s wrong and dirty and disgusting, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about Dean.

He should be jerking off and thinking about Breanne, the curly-headed brunette who’d pressed up against him in the bar, her breasts soft and heavy against his arm. Instead, he’s thinking about the way Dean smiled at her, the way he’d sprawled over his chair and invited her to sit on his lap.

Sam can’t help but think of the time, weeks or months earlier, when Dean had stumbled into the motel at four in the morning, drunk as a skunk and dragging an equally intoxicated blonde named Vanessa behind him. He’d shoved her onto the nearest bed, dragged her panties down her legs, and fucked her. Sam saw them, moving in the darkness of the motel room, panting and moaning and desperately trying to get their clothes out of the way so they could touch – just touch –

He remembers listening to Dean, moaning softly when he came.

He hadn’t jerked off then, but he could now.

 

2\. _Trying my best not to forget_

Dean’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated so much that his eyes look black, even outside of the shadows. He’s breathing hard, panting, and he has to stop and brace himself against the wall, his fingers digging into the rough brick.

Sam’s looking around anxiously, desperate to get the fuck out of the alley, get somewhere safe so that he can figure out what the hell is wrong with Dean and then fix it, but he had no idea where that psychopathic witch is or whether she’s coming after them for revenge or…

Sam doesn’t think about the ‘or’.

Dean whimpers, not loudly but enough that Sam starts paying attention ‘cause Dean doesn’t make noise, doesn’t react to pain like a normal person. Dean’s fucking _stoic_ , a real manly man, he’d rather bite his own tongue off than admit anything hurts.

Doesn’t matter, of course, ‘cause Dean’s still braced against the wall, eyes shut tight, throat working as he swallows convulsively.

Sam tries not to look, tries not to think about Dean’s throat. He doesn’t think about Dean licking his lips. He doesn’t think about anything.

Dean gasps, falls to his knees.

Sam hates himself.

 

3\. _What happened to us._

Drugs are bad. Very, very bad.

He’d smoked up in college, of course, everybody did and it was more of an experiment than anything else. He’d taken a few hits, sat back to see how it would affect him – and of course, it was just a little marijuana, hardly the most dangerous of illicit substances.

He’d been fine, perfectly fine, right up until the part where he _wasn’t_ anymore. He had about four seconds of disorientation and then even that went away because everything – everything – felt good. _Really_ good.

The texture of his t-shirt, pressed against his back, had made him hard. The slide of skin on skin when he rubbed the back of his neck had made him moan. He’d tried to force himself to breathe, then, and the sudden rush of air into his lungs – god, it all felt so _good_ – had made him come in his pants.

Sam didn’t do drugs, anymore, but he was sitting in a small hotel room with two girls he didn’t know – Dean was in the bathroom, probably fucking their friend up against the wall – and it was just too much. He took the proffered joint, realized that he was going to regret this no matter how it ended.

He almost didn’t care.

 

4\. _What happened to me._

Drugs, Sam thinks, are bad. Dugs are very, very bad, and he knows that he isn’t making much sense at all, knows that he’s totally, completely, and in all other ways just fucked.

Dean, of course, will come to save him, but Sam has no idea how long that’ll be. Knowing his brother, he’ll stop to get some fucking gas or wash the goddamn car, won’t realize that Sam’s in any danger until he doesn’t show up two hours after they were supposed to meet.

Dean, Sam thinks, is probably getting laid – this time with a busty blonde – and won’t even realize that somewhere, in the same god damn city, his baby brother is being used for a fucking human sacrifice.

There’s a drumbeat, of course, and Sam tries not to shudder. He doesn’t know what the hell kind of drugs they gave him, but they must be very, very bad – because Sam feels very, very _good_. Every reverberating beat of the drums is shuddering through him, setting him on fire. His blood is dripping down his back, down his arms, and he tries not to think about how fucking good it feels, how each drop sliding down his skin makes him shudder, how the touch of the knife makes him whimper, how fucking good it feels when the knife comes out again.

He’s fairly certain that he’s screaming, of course, for help and for Dean. He doesn’t know if he wants to be rescued, though. He’s afraid that by the time Dean shows up, he won’t want to leave, not even if it – this – kills him.

Falling to the ground is like a dream. Sam lands awkwardly, his stiff muscles unable to catch him, his reflexes all shot to shit. He screams, loudly, because even the _pain_ feels good. He lies on the cold ground, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps.

If he stays still long enough, maybe he will stop feeling. Maybe he will still be alive, when Dean comes to rescue him.

“Sam!”

He almost doesn’t recognize the voice, he’s so far gone. Inside, he is repeating over and over, although the words have lost all their meaning by then, _when Dean gets here, when Dean gets here, when Dean gets here…_ He doesn’t know how the sentence is supposed to end, but he knows that his brother is going to come for him.

“Snap out of it, Sammy.” Dean is there, suddenly, and Sam wants to weep with relief, although he can’t remember why it’s a good thing.

“Sam?” Dean’s hand on his shoulder _(oh god yes please)_ – it hurts, fuck, it _hurts_. There are deep gashes all over his back, still bleeding. His entire world is agony, and when Sam moans it has nothing at all to do with pain.

The hand is removed, and Sam pulls himself to his feet, slowly, gritting his teeth. This is worse than being stoned, worst than the time he’d gotten so drunk he couldn’t even feel his broken arm. This is agony, this is excruciating, and Sam is desperately trying to remember that he isn’t supposed to like it.

Dean gets impatient, drags him forward. Every single point of contact between them is like fire, like life, it feels good. Dean’s fingers, surprisingly smooth, pressed into the uninjured skin of his forearm _(oh – more, more)_. Heat spreads like a shockwave, Sam digs his fingernails on his other hand into his palm until he breaks the skin _(Harder, please, please, I want)_. It doesn’t do much, but it reminds Sam that it’s the _drugs_. It’s the drugs, because everything is _not_ supposed to feel this good.

He stumbles along behind his brother. Sam falls to his knees, doesn’t move as Dean single-handedly defeats the forces of evil and saves their asses, kills the bad guy.

When Dean touches his shoulder again _(yes, yes, fuck m-)_ , Sam has regained just enough control to snarl “Don’t touch me.” He’s almost shaking, trying not to think of the cold, cold air on his pare skin. He tries not to think of himself as a single point of flame, the rest of the world is not oxygen. He burns.

Dean looks exhausted and confused and Sam doesn’t care. Forcing himself to his feet, and finally, finally, _fuck,_ the drugs are starting to wear off – Sam limps in the direction of the exit.

Dean follows, watching for danger and probably taking stock of Sam’s injuries as well.

He throw open the trunk of the Impala and grabs the first button-up shirt he can find, shrugging it on even though his body is weak with abuse and every movement hurts.

It doesn’t matter, anyways, there are enough drugs left in his system that everything still feels good.

 

5\. _What happened as I let it slip._

There’s no consent, of course, and Dean wouldn’t have been in any shape to give it anyways. There’s nothing, no thinking, no talking.

Dean’s backed up against a wall, so Sam just grabs his collar, shoves him even harder into the cement, and kisses him. It’s nothing like he thought it would be like – this kiss is sloppy and wet and kind of dirty, and it doesn’t end with Dean punching him. Dean kisses him back, just as sloppy, just as eager, holding Sam to him, wrapping his fingers in his hair.

Dean shudders, his entire body trembling, and Sam presses him back against the wall, presses kisses onto his collarbone. This is the first time. This is the _only_ time. Sam kisses Dean again, swallows the sound of his brother’s desperate whimper.

Dean is desperate, his body arching into Sam’s. He pulls him tighter, ignores his need to breathe, kisses him again and again because this will never happen again and he needs these memories to last him a lifetime.

It takes him half a second to undo his belt, then Sam’s got his hand in Dean’s pants, stroking his erection through his boxers, tasting the exhilarating sound of Dean’s moans. He jerks him hard and fast, wanting desperately more than Dean could ever possibly give him.

They’re both high, both desperate, and the slow pounding beat of his own heartbeat gives Sam a rhythm to work off of. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s dick, slides his thumb over the slit and listens to every hitch of Dean’s breath, every gasp, every moan.

He’ll never get enough of this.

 

_6\. Baby... did you forget to take your meds?_

Sam’s shaking with withdrawal, the world is too bright and horrifyingly big. Shapes are sliding past each other, the pain is immense.

Dean’s behind him, big hands splayed out over Sam’s back, holding him onto the seat.

Please, Sam wants to say. Please, don’t touch me.

But he can’t force the words out, and Dean’s hand stays here, holding him down, even though Sam feels as if he’ll shake right out of his skin and fly off, away, somewhere the Impala can’t follow.

 

_7\. And the sex, and the drugs, and the complications._

It’s wrong, because it’s his _brother_.

-

Fin.  
   



End file.
